


To Give Life a Shape

by icepixie



Category: Slings & Arrows, due South
Genre: Acting, Crossover, F/M, Gen, Humor, Romance, Shakespeare, Wistful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-02
Updated: 2011-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-14 08:26:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/147311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icepixie/pseuds/icepixie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fraser and Thatcher attend one of the New Burbage Festival's corporate workshops, where Geoffrey, because he finds them amusing, attempts to yank their chains by casting them in precisely the two roles they don't want to play.  Awkwardness ensues, musings on life and art are pronounced, and all is well ended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Give Life a Shape

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in a timewarped universe in which a day several weeks after "Red, White or Blue" coincides with one sometime around episode five of the first season of S&A (Darren is gone, but Claire is still around). The title is part of a quotation from _The Rehearsal_ , by Jean Anouilh: "The object of art is to give life a shape."
> 
> A million thanks to rowdycamels, without whom this would be but a pale shadow of itself.

At 9:45, Anna knocked on his open door, poking her head in. "I just wanted to remind you that the corporate workshop starts in fifteen minutes," she said, sounding, as always, slightly apologetic.

"Shit." Geoffrey squeezed his eyes shut and thunked his forehead against the desk. "Do I have to?" he asked, his voice muffled by the wood.

"Well, it is the last one of the season," Anna said brightly, with just the slightest touch of brittleness. She really, really hated it when he did something mentally unstable, such as not showing up for one of these workshops.

"Thank God." He raised his head. Anna still looked worried. "All right. I'll be there in a few minutes."

"Oh, thank God," she blurted, and he could tell from her expression that she hadn't meant to say that out loud. He waved his hand magnanimously. _Don't worry; unlike most of the people around here, I already know I'm crazy._

"Remember this one has a theme: teamwork," Anna said.

Right. The themed workshops. Last week had been positive thinking, and hadn't _that_ been fun. He'd gotten a particular charge out of using some of Lady Macbeth's speeches for that one.

"I'm on it," he assured Anna, lying through his teeth. Hell, he hadn't even known what the theme was until she mentioned it.

"I'm going to pretend I believe that," she said. "See you at lunch."

"Bye, Anna." He gave her a two-fingered wave, and she returned to her desk, her sensibly low heels clicking on the hardwood floor.

* * *

To kill time at the start of the workshop, he had everyone go around and introduce themselves. Instead of twenty people from one company, today's group was made up of several pairs, threesomes, and quartets from various places. In addition to the usual project managers and sales representatives and marketing drones, there were a few engineers, a flock of nurses, and two Mounties.

He gave those last two, an Inspector Meg Thatcher and Constable Benton Fraser—the sight of whom was like looking at a fucking mirror into ten years ago, except his hair had never looked that neat, and he'd certainly never worn a brown RCMP uniform—a genuinely surprised look. "What the hell are you doing here?" he asked. "Shouldn't your teamwork exercises involve shooting things? Riding horses, maybe?"

The woman, Thatcher (he had a feeling she went by her last name), grimaced. "Another of my junior officers at the consulate decided that this would be an appropriate use of discretionary funds in order to meet professional development quotas. I've ensured that he's never going to be allowed access to consulate funds again."

"But we're very interested to learn how the works of William Shakespeare can be studied to improve our teamwork and interpersonal communication skills," the other one, Fraser, piped up. Geoffrey looked at his desk. He had a pad of lined notebook paper and two freshly-sharpened pencils laid ruler-straight on the surface.

He'd been working on not sounding like a crazy person when he laughed. From the worried looks on most of the participants' faces, he had not succeeded this time. "All right, let's cut to the chase. This whole idea of analyzing, say, the teamwork of _Titus Andronicus'_ Chiron and Demetrius, who I might remind you raped a woman and then cut off her hands and tongue so she couldn't give them away—you know it's bullshit, right?"

Several cautious nods. Thatcher, he noticed, looked more bored than concerned about the fact that he was telling them the whole workshop was pointless, while Fraser quickly raised his hand. "But Mr. Tennant," he said when Geoffrey, stupidly, nodded at him, "don't you think that, for example, the scene in _Much Ado About Nothing_ where Claudio, Leonato, and Don Pedro trick Benedick into believing Beatrice loves him, while admittedly not the most morally sound way of going about things, shows a remarkable facility for working together to make and carry out a plan of action?"

Geoffrey stared at him for a long moment. The man had probably spent the past week reading every word of the Riverside Complete Works. While taking notes. "Are you for real?" he asked.

Fraser's brow knit in confusion. "I'm not sure I understand the question. If you're asking whether I exist in any kind of objective sense, then I—"

"Never mind," he said, just as Thatcher snapped, "Constable!"

Fraser looked back and forth between them. "Understood," he finally said.

Now somewhat rattled, Geoffrey looked out at the blank faces of the rest of the group. An idea came to him. "Instead of looking at how characters in the plays demonstrate teamwork, let's try a little hands-on learning." At the back of the room was a bookshelf containing multiple copies of individual plays, and he headed for it, the workshop attendees' heads turning to follow him. "If you could all arrange yourselves so I can tell who's together...thank you," he said as a few chairs scooted around.

Quickly running through scenes and characters in his head, he began picking books off the shelf. "I'm going to give each group a scene to perform. You get to work as teams to figure out how to block it—how to place yourselves and move around during the scene—and what kind of reading to give each line. After you've had some time to prepare, we'll all come back together for a performance." He was quite pleased with this plan, off the cuff as it was, because it gave him time to work on the _Hamlet_. And considering that he had a blithering idiot of an Ophelia, a Gertrude who had completely checked out of rehearsals, and a Hamlet who had yet to speak one line of the actual text, not to mention no set, costumes, or even a good, solid concept of what he wanted the whole thing to look like, he needed all the time he could get.

He handed out copies of various plays to everyone, assigning reasonably well-known scenes with the appropriate number of speaking parts to each of the groups. He got to the Mounties last, and it was with a certain amount of perverse glee that he handed them copies of _Romeo and Juliet_. Fraser was so painfully earnest, and Thatcher so obviously bored with the whole thing, that he wanted to ruffle their feathers a little. "Act two, scene two," he told them. "You might want to use one of your chairs for a prop."

Both of them thought about that for a second and then, as one, their eyes widened with realization. "Mr. Tennant—" they both started.

"I'll be up at the front if you need me," he called to the whole room, steamrolling over the Mounties' objections, and then made an about-face back to the front of the room. Taking a seat by the wall, he ostentatiously buried his head in his copy of _Hamlet_.

Twenty minutes passed peacefully. Then guilt snuck up on him. The participants had spent several minutes reading through their scripts in silence, and he'd almost managed to lose himself in his own thinking. However, they'd now started reading them out loud. He could hear them. And what they were doing to the text actually physically hurt, a little stabbing pain somewhere near his heart.

Shit.

With a sigh, he put his book down and walked over to the most pathetic of the groups, a collection of sales reps attempting the witches in _Macbeth_. At the moment, they sounded like witches who'd been drinking a little too much of their homebrew grog. "I like the idea of being drunk on your own power," he said, "but maybe less 'drunk' and more 'power.'"

By the time he worked his way around to the Mounties, forty-five minutes had elapsed. Thatcher had, he saw, not deigned to get up on her chair; instead, the two stood facing each other, a broad gulf between them. Both broke off from their reading and gave him baleful looks when he approached. Fraser's in particular resembled that of a dog who had been forced into doll clothes and was now asking God what he had done to deserve such a fate. He motioned for them to continue.

With a supremely pained expression, Thatcher glued her gaze to the book in front of her. "How camest thou hither, tell me, and wherefore?" she asked, completely deadpan. "The orchard walls are high and hard to climb, and the place death, considering who thou art"—she didn't give the impression that she thought this was much of a problem—"if any of my kinsmen find thee here."

Fraser wiped his palm on his pants leg and cleared his throat. "With—" His eyes wide, he took a breath and started again. "With, ah, with love's light wings did I o'er-perch these walls; for stony limits cannot hold love out." He seemed to shrink down into himself. "And what love can do that dares love attempt—"

He couldn't stand to hear the massacre go on for one more word. "Okay, let's pause for a minute," he said, palms up in a desperate gesture. "You've got to think of this as more than just reciting words on a page. Otherwise...it's meaningless. You might as well be reading it silently to yourselves."

They had identical blank looks on their faces. For some reason, he got the impression that they were blank less from misunderstanding than from a great deal of effort. He put that thought aside and pushed on.

"Let's look at the context here. You, Romeo and Juliet, are two teenagers who are desperately in love. You _burn_ with it; it consumes you. You saw each other for the first time at a party a few hours ago, and you shared this one kiss that was the single most transcendent, mind-blowing moment of your lives. Your families hate each other, but the fact that you're forbidden from any kind of contact just makes it even more exciting.

"So right now, your hearts are racing with all of this fear and adrenaline and love and, let's face it, _lust_ , and the only thing keeping you from going over to Juliet's bed right now is the fact that if anyone finds Romeo within these walls they're going to run a sword through him."

At that point, he broke off, noticing their expressions. He'd thought they would show some understanding, maybe a little embarrassment at his frankness, but "abject horror" had not really entered his expectations. They glanced at each other while trying not to let their eyes meet, and it only seemed to mortify them further.

"Something wrong?" he asked after a long moment.

Fraser hooked a finger into his collar and yanked it away from his throat. "Ah, not exactly—" he started, just as Thatcher, her cheeks pinkening, said, "Look, Mr. Tennant, I appreciate what you're trying to do. But we're Mounties. We're not going to be putting on a play any time soon."

He suddenly heard Oliver's voice over his right shoulder. "Oh, Geoffrey, are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Oh, yeah," he drawled. Before the confused looks on the Mounties' faces could turn to questions about his sanity, he said, "Well, why don't you just try standing a little closer to each other." He almost put a hand on Thatcher's back to nudge her toward Fraser, but at her frankly murderous glare, he simply made a shooing motion. With extreme reluctance, they each took a few steps forward until, instead of a good three feet, there were only about six inches between them. Geoffrey managed, barely, to avoid chortling at their obvious discomfort at being so far into one another's personal space.

"And okay, I know you've got to read out of the books, but you've still got one free hand, so try...touching each other. Caress her face, or run your hand down his arm." This was _so_ punching his ticket to hell.

The Mounties looked as if he were asking them to handle poisonous snakes, or possibly live grenades, rather than each other. Fraser gulped audibly. "With all due respect, I _really_ don't think that—"

"Go on, go on. 'With love's light wings...'" Geoffrey put a hand over his mouth to hide the gleeful grin forming on it.

"I think you've terrified them," Oliver said, sounding proud.

He nodded, not trusting himself to say anything without bursting into laughter.

A long, expectant moment passed. Finally, Fraser began speaking the lines, looking agonized. "With love's light wings did I o'er-perch these walls," he said, still as stilted as before. Then he paused, apparently rallying something within himself. He looked at Thatcher and focused, really focused, for the first time since they'd started this exercise. "For stony limits cannot hold love out," he continued, and Geoffrey actually saw a smile begin to form on his face.

He shocked all of them next by reaching across the tiny space that divided him from Thatcher and cupping her cheek, not quite touching her, but his fingers filling the air mere millimeters from her skin. "And what love can do that dares love attempt; therefore thy kinsmen are no let to me."

Thatcher too had transformed somewhere in those four lines. Earlier, she had worn the most disinterestedly impersonal expression Geoffrey had seen this side of a mannequin; now, her eyes fixed on Fraser's face, she seemed to hang on his every word. Both, he noticed, had stopped looking at their books entirely. "If they do see thee, they will murder thee," she whispered, and he would swear she was actually breathless.

Now Fraser really did touch her, trailing his fingertips down her cheek until he reached her chin, lifting it gently. "Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye than twenty of their swords: look thou but sweet, and I am proof against their enmity."

At Thatcher's answering smile, Geoffrey was suddenly, painfully reminded of the first time he had done this scene with Ellen, some ten years ago now. They began rehearsals a few months after he'd moved in to her house, and when he said those lines, she had looked exactly...like...that...

Oliver, who at the moment was the last person on Earth he wanted to speak to, tapped his shoulder. "They're _good_ ," he said in wonderment. "For amateurs, they're very good. My God, Geoffrey, the things we could do with them if we had them for a season—"

"Go away, Oliver," he snapped, not caring now if the Mounties heard. Thankfully, they were so completely engrossed in the scene that they missed it entirely.

But they didn't miss Anna coming into the room a few minutes later and cheerfully announcing that lunch had arrived. He loved Anna—she was quite probably the sanest and most competent person employed by the festival—but they really needed to have a talk about not interrupting his work.

Thatcher and Fraser jumped away from each other as if they'd been caught half-naked on a couch by someone's parents. Thatcher practically threw her copy of the play onto her chair in her haste to get to the caterer's sandwiches and, more importantly, away from her constable. _Dammit_ , Geoffrey thought. Just when they'd gotten the hang of it.

"All right, everyone, take an hour," he called to the rest of the participants.

"Mr. Tennant," Fraser said. "May I speak to you for a moment?"

Geoffrey glanced around in what he hoped was a surreptitious manner, making sure Oliver had in fact left when he'd told him to. "Certainly."

Fraser closed his book and carefully placed it on his chair. "Don't you think there are, well, more appropriate scenes in the Shakespearean canon from which to draw lessons on teamwork and interpersonal communication?"

He couldn't help the smirk that appeared on his face. "I thought you were communicating pretty impressively for a while there."

He had never actually seen anyone turn as red as a fire engine until now. "I suppose it was—that is—even so, don't you think there are other scenes we could perform? Why this one?"

Geoffrey took his time before answering, leaning casually against the wall and giving the appearance of thinking it over. "Well," he said, "about two thirds of the people here would tell you that it's because I enjoy fucking with people." He glanced at Fraser to see how that had gone over. God, even the tips of the man's _ears_ were red. "And to a certain extent, they'd be right. However, the more important reason..." He thought of Ellen again, of the way she'd looked at him in the wings right before curtain call on opening night. She'd been Juliet for the past two and a half hours; at that moment, she became Ellen again, and yet she still had that look on her face, the same lovestruck look she'd had as Juliet, only it was for _him_.

They'd almost missed their bows.

"The more important reason is that everything that makes an actor really great comes from his own life. Whatever he's feeling—his happiness, his anger, his grief—it all shows up on the stage, because how else can we conjure up this whole other person from what are, really, just words on a page? And so when you get up there, and you say those words, and you really mean them—it's magical." Ellen as Beatrice, as Rosalind, as—yes—Ophelia floated before his mind's eye. With effort, he dissolved her, watching her fade from his mind like fog, and shrugged at Fraser. "So I figured you could put the rather obvious attraction between the two of you to work."

Fraser's eyes grew wide, and he yanked at his collar again. "Such an...attraction...between the Inspector and myself would be highly inappropriate." Geoffrey raised an eyebrow. Fraser rubbed a thumb along his own. "As for the scene, it's just that—well, that is, there are rules—not exactly rules against fraternization, but it is frowned upon between a commanding officer and her subordinate, and so you see, the scene, especially as you would like us to perform it, is rather unsuitable for two RCMP members in our respective positions, and—"

This time Geoffrey really did laugh. "Do you have _any_ idea how many times actors are told in school, and by directors, and even sometimes by management if they feel they have to poke their heads in, that they shouldn't get involved with other members of the cast? Everyone tells you it's a bad idea, and, I grant you, a lot of the time it is." He crossed his arms, settling even further against the wall. "Do you want to guess how many actors have followed that particular unwritten rule?"

Fraser almost—almost—smiled. "Very few?"

"Got it in one." His stomach growled just then, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since...well, he supposed there had been coffee this morning. "You know, lunch sounds like an excellent idea."

"I agree." Fraser started to follow him toward the table filled with boxed lunches, but then stopped, stricken. "But about the scene—"

Geoffrey picked up his pace. "See you in an hour, Constable!" he called over his shoulder, swinging by the table and snagging a box, then quickly ducking out of the room, heading for the Swan.

* * *

After a lunch spent arguing with Oliver about duel choreography for Hamlet and Laertes, he had the workshop attendees perform their scenes. His talk with them had improved the witches into something that at least approached "school play" instead of "drunken revel," and the other groups all discharged themselves with reasonable effectiveness, all things considered.

He saved the Mounties for last. When he called them up to the front, they looked like they were headed for their executions. His spirits fell; he really hoped that they hadn't overthought what they were doing and lost all of their energy from earlier.

Fraser had the first line. Instead of saying it, he looked at Geoffrey, fairly begging him to not make them do this. _Damn_.

"Fraser," he heard Thatcher say in a low voice. The constable looked at her, and some kind of silent communication occurred between them. She seemed to be granting him some kind of permission. Finally, Fraser said, "He jests at scars that never felt a wound."

Geoffrey decided not to take the tone of voice personally.

Things were pretty rocky for a few lines, but then they seemed to settle into it, moving closer and closer to each other until they finally touched, at once electrifying the air in the room. They appeared, at times, to be inches away from actually falling into one another's arms. When Thatcher, her face radiant as a sun, softly pronounced, "My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite," Geoffrey actually saw one of the engineers dash something from her eye.

The room rang with applause when they finished. Looking somewhat bemused by the return to reality, they took quick, embarrassed bows and hurried back to their seats. The uncomfortable distance between them was back; neither so much as glanced at the other while Geoffrey thanked everyone for their work and then had them fill up the remaining hours of the workshop with readings from the better-known plays. Feeling merciful, he only made the Mounties read Lysander and Hermia once.

When the workshop finally ended and he mentioned he was heading for the bar, about half the group followed him, like a pack of garrulous ducklings, to the theater watering hole. Unsurprisingly, Fraser and Thatcher were not among them, and it was with some disappointment that he realized he was unlikely to ever see them again.

However, some time later, when the rest of the group had gone home and he was about to leave himself, Thatcher entered the bar. Instead of getting up, he swiftly ordered another beer.

Ho nodded at her when she approached the bar and requested scotch. "Excellent performance today," he said.

She frowned at him, taking a seat but leaving an empty stool between them. "That was unfair, you know." He raised an eyebrow. "We aren't like you. We can't just do something like that and then turn it off without any effect on our real lives."

"And what makes you think actors can?" He shrugged at her annoyed expression. "Well, you've got to blame the theatrical community's dismal relationship success rate on something. It might as well be that."

She hmphed and took a sip of her drink.

"Besides, isn't that what we want art—really good art, anyway—to do? Affect our lives, influence our very souls?"

She was silent, either thinking about what he'd said or plotting the most efficient way to break his arm, he couldn't tell. But before he learned the answer, the bell on the door jingled, and both looked up to see Fraser enter the bar, some kind of husky dog following at his heels. Thatcher stiffened as he approached, and Geoffrey's back twinged in sympathy.

"Ma'am," Fraser said, "I thought you should know that Constable Turnbull left you a message at the hotel's front desk. I took the liberty of retrieving it from the clerk."

Thatcher pinched the bridge of her nose. "What's he done now? Burnt the consulate down?"

"Oh, no, ma'am. Apparently there was an incident with the Norwegian ambassador in which—well, it's nothing that can't wait until we return to Chicago."

"I suppose that's something." She pulled a couple of coins from her purse and deposited them on the bar. Apparently she'd had as much of Geoffrey's philosophizing as she could take. "Mr. Tennant," she said, nodding at him.

"A thousand times good night, my lady," he said, one last barb for the road.

She glared at him, and for a moment he thought she really was going to break his arm. Then she picked up her still half-full glass and tossed the rest of the drink down her throat. "Fraser," she called, causing the other man, who had been on his way to the door, to make an about-face.

She walked over to him, and Geoffrey could tell she was making an effort to look calm and collected. He could, if he listened carefully, just hear their conversation. It helped that half the bar had gone quiet, also watching the two Mounties with as much interest as they might have viewed one of the better festival productions.

Geoffrey felt a presence beside him, a cold draft and the fleeting smell of pine branches in the snow, despite the fact that it was June. He glanced to his right, expecting Oliver, but there was no one there.

"Fraser," Thatcher said again. "I...I was thinking about our, um, our agreement. From after the—the train."

And then Oliver did appear, this time on his left. "Oh, God, I can't watch," he moaned, putting a hand over his eyes. "Geoffrey, go _do_ something!"

He shook his head. "I'm pretty sure they have to do this themselves." Though an explanation of what the hell it had to do with a train would be nice.

Thatcher was still babbling. "It's just that with...well, with recent circumstances being as they are—I mean, with both of us finding ourselves unable to erase certain...certain things from our memories, and, of course, with Randall Bolt being in prison for the rest of his life, so that the chance of those exact circumstances repeating themselves is, although not entirely non-existent, certainly less likely than it might be otherwise—not that it was ever likely, of course—I thought perhaps we could...we could revisit the terms. Of our agreement." She bit her lip. "If you want to, of course. I would never order you to...or, or ask you in any official capacity...."

Fraser cocked his head, and Geoffrey found himself holding his breath. Oliver had dropped his hand from his eyes and was staring at the Mounties as though he could cause them to make this leap through force of will alone.

"I..." Fraser glanced over Thatcher's shoulder at Geoffrey, a drowning Ferdinand reaching a hand out of the sea, hoping for rescue. Geoffrey silently urged him on.

"I...would like that very much. Perhaps we could discuss it over dinner?"

Her hopeful little smile could just be seen. "That would be...very nice."

Half the bar let out sighs of relief.

Sneaking shy glances at each other, the Mounties (and the dog) left the bar. Geoffrey relaxed on his barstool, a satisfied smirk on his face.

Beside him, Oliver sighed gustily. "I feel like I just sent my child off to their first school dance."

Geoffrey slowly turned his head and gave him a disbelieving look. "Because you would know what that feels like."

"I had very paternal feelings toward some of the apprentices over the years," Oliver shot back, sounding hurt.

"Please tell me you didn't feel that way about the ones you were fucking."

Oliver didn't respond, and Geoffrey shuddered. "I suggest you let that be your cue," he said, and tossed a bill on the bar. "I'm definitely taking it as mine." He stood up, hoping Oliver wouldn't follow him, and headed for the door.

* * *

Just outside the bar, he ran into Ellen. "Hello, Geoffrey," she said, sounding...pleasant. Impersonal. There had been a time when she would have reacted otherwise.

"Ellen. Where's your boyfriend?" he asked, emphasizing the "boy." Over the past several weeks, the cracks about her teenaged boyfriend had become rote, and he hardly had to put any thought into them at all.

She rolled her eyes, either at him or the boy, he wasn't sure. Probably him. "Motorcycle practice. He has a meet, or a match, or whatever, on Saturday." She tilted her head toward the bar. "Were you going for a drink?"

"Just leaving, actually."

"Oh." She looked the tiniest bit disappointed, and suddenly he regretted the crack, regretted—perhaps for the first time—that their entire relationship had devolved from the bright truth of what they'd said to each other as Benedick and Beatrice, or Romeo and Juliet, or any number of others, into small talk and scripted insults on a sidewalk. Directing required its own kind of authenticity, but without words shared onstage to give them shape, they didn't seem to know how to make their lives intersect anymore.

He'd wanted to marry her once, marry her and make a baby. He'd even told her so, and granted, it had been while pickled in at least six kinds of alcohol, but he'd meant every word. _In vino veritas._ Honesty is not found only on the stage.

He thought of the Mounties, who had been more willing to engage with truth in the past ten minutes than he had in seven years.

"However, I have not had dinner." He half-expected her to take the hint, but of course, things were different now. "Would you care to join me?"

"Geoffrey, I don't..." she started, and suddenly he _needed_ her to say yes, needed this one thing, this single détente, to happen between them.

"A completely non-threatening, impersonal sharing of food," he said, hoping he didn't sound as desperate as he felt. "We can discuss the scene in Gertrude's closet."

That did it. "All right. But Sloan's coming over in an hour, so I can't stay long."

"Of course." He almost offered her his arm, then thought better of it. "Do you still like the potstickers at Yong's?"

The ghost of a smile flitted over her mouth. "Yes."

"Good." A fraction of the weight in his heart fell away, and his own lips twitched briefly. They started down the street, ready, perhaps, to perform the long-neglected offices of truth.


End file.
